


Making the Man

by APgeeksout



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Affection, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Formalwear, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-20
Updated: 2018-01-20
Packaged: 2019-03-07 03:36:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13425954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/APgeeksout/pseuds/APgeeksout
Summary: Seth finds redemption suits him.





	Making the Man

**Author's Note:**

> Set in a slight AU where this year’s Slammy Awards are a black-tie affair that Dean will be around and healthy for.

"There," Roman says, turning the edge of Dean's collar down over the freshly-knotted tie and smoothing it down his chest. "Was that so hard?"

Dean grins crookedly, and tosses his head, stirring the mess of loose curls his hair's drying into. "Guess I'll live." 

According to Wardrobe, the blue of their shirts will show up on camera as the same shade that's in their merch. Right now, in the dressing room they've snagged, it just makes Dean's eyes ridiculously, unfairly blue when they turn on Seth, where he's sitting on the couch in his own matching shirt and a pair of dark jeans. 

"Clock's ticking, slowpoke," he says. "I know me and Prince Charming over here make it look easy, but you might want a minute to finish gettin' beautiful."

"I'll show you 'Prince Charming' if you don't watch it, babe," Roman grumbles cheerfully and nonsensically as he holds up the black brocade suit jacket for Dean to shrug into. "But he's probably right that you should get a move on, little brother." 

"I'm thinking I might just go on like this," Seth offers. His hair isn't any messier than Dean's; he's wearing the shirt, even if the tie's hanging loose like he's just come from a good party or a good fight. "I mean, we don't actually have to match, right? Do they think we're triplets?"

"Maybe a doo-wop group?" Dean suggests, and dances out from under where Roman's hands are straightening his lapels and across the little room to sprawl next to Seth. "Either way, we look sharp."

"I don't care about our matching theme." Roman sighs, straightening the cuff of his shirtsleeve under the slick black coat. Dean's right; he does look like he stepped straight out of a fairytale: gorgeous and noble and somebody's happily-ever-after. "But for one thing: we're handing out the statue for Female Superstar of the Year. You really want to disrespect those women by showing up like a slob?"

"What if it's Asuka?" Dean interjects. "You want her thinking you don't take her work seriously? I'm supposed to be the reckless one, and even I know better than that." He sticks out his tongue and companionably knocks his knee into Seth's. 

"And for another:" Roman continues, unfazed, "you're being weird about this, and I _do_ care about you."

He looks away from Roman's searching gaze and finds no relief in Dean's; his expression is concerned, and gentler than any look he's aimed at Seth for a long, long while.

"Yeah, what's up?" Dean asks, and suddenly his hand is heavy and warm on Seth's knee. "You know you clean up nice. S'not like you to pass up a chance to show off."

Seth chuckles, or he means to, but the sound comes out strangled. "Maybe I just don't feel fancy tonight," he offers weakly, and thinks of the suit that's lived crumpled at the bottom of his bag since the day they taped for _Table for 3_ , its zipper wrecked in his haste to get it off before they saw him in it. Remembers the way his shirtsleeves bunched and strained around his arms when he wrenched himself out of the way of Dirty Deeds or hauled the briefcase back for a swing. The clammy feel of sweating all the way through a gunmetal jacket while Roman stared him down, eyes full of cold fury and undisguised sorrow. Hunter readjusting his tie just a little too tight, every time. He swallows hard. 

"Come here," Roman says, voice kind but brooking no argument, and holds out a hand. Seth takes it and lets himself be pulled to his feet to stand in front of Roman, who lets go of his fingers only to reach up and turn his collar up against his neck. He's still in his stocking feet, and it's just enough to make him sharply aware of the inch or two of height Roman has on him. He hears Dean get to his feet behind him, feels the warmth of him hovering close.

His throat works under Roman's fingers as he does up the very top button of his shirt and runs the smooth material of the tie around the back of his neck until it sits where he wants it to. He knows how to tie his own tie -- he's not Dean, after all; he spent a good part of his childhood being made to dress up for Sunday school and piano recitals and relatives' birthdays -- but he lets Roman do it for him, anyway. 

“Sorry,” he says, focusing on Roman’s steady hands looping and cinching the tie instead of on his face, “I guess I am making things weird. Just... the last million times I wore a suit to work with you guys, the memories aren’t good ones. I’m guessing not for any of us.”

Roman snugs the knot gently against the base of his throat, folds his collar back into place, then raises one hand up to cup Seth’s jaw and tip his face up so that their eyes meet again. “That’s why it’s time to make some new ones,” he says, stroking the pad of his thumb along the line of Seth’s bottom lip.

He takes a breath, and then Dean is pressed up close behind him, chin tucked over his shoulder, arms loose around his waist. “First step, gotta get you out of these,” he says, and his hands find the waist of Seth’s jeans, popping the button, familar and easy as anything.

Roman laughs and sinks the hand that’s not on Seth’s face into Dean’s hair. “Easy boy. Have to get him into the suit and out on stage with us before we get to the fun part.”

“Spoilsport,” Dean grouses, but he does turn to press a kiss to Seth’s cheek and then draws back to let him step out of his jeans and into the black suit pants. 

They must be running shorter on time even than he realized, with the way Dean and Roman take him in hand after that. When he sits to put on the shiny dress shoes, Dean takes a knee to tie them for him, a thatch of curls falling over his forehead. Roman sits down beside him and cards back through his hair, gentle fingers working it into a neat braid. He lets himself be swept along with their little touches and quiet back-and-forth, back to his feet and into the jacket Roman holds up for him to slip into.

It’s a nice coat, sumptuous fabric cut to his own measurements. It feels good hugging his body, though not as good as Roman’s hands digging firmly into his shoulders or Dean’s slipping beneath the cool lining to curve against his ribs, warm through his shirt.

“Know I'm full of shit half the time,” Dean says, “but so was whoever said the clothes make the man. Me and Romeo here, we both know you're not gonna turn back into that weasel just because you dress the part.”

Roman steps in and wraps his arms around both of them at once. When he says, “You should know it, too,” Seth feels it reverberate through him.


End file.
